A Hygenist Nightmare

My husband went to the dentist yesterday to have his teeth cleaned for the first time in about 2 years. And as you can imagine, he handled it like a man.

Let me first answer your initial question. Why? Well, again, he's a man. Second question - why didn't I make him. OK, let's see. I have nagged, bullied and begged. Finally, I did what only a wife can do. I threatened not to kiss him anymore.

Well, he finally went. But he refused to go to the same dentist our kids and I visit. Probably because he knew the dentist and I would have a good laugh about it.

So as he left the house yesterday I sweetly gave him a peck on the cheek and told him, "I hope they have a jackhammer ready."

The appointment started at 8:30 a.m. and finished at 10:20 a.m. Luckily, the hygenist put on a topical anesthetic.

He called me afterwards and our conversation went something like this:

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Well, I bet your teeth feel really clean.

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Take some aspirin.

Him: I hate going to the dentist.

Me: Don't you love that fresh-from-the-dentist clean feel?

Him: My mouth hurts.

Last night as we sat on our patio, he was in a much better mood. A couple of Tylenol, and gin and tonics did wonders.

"I think the hygienist got tired," he told me. "She actually poked me once in the lip."

"I'm never going to do this again," he said.

What? I've got to fight this battle again?

"I've learned my lesson," he said. "I'm going back in six months."

As he finished telling me about his two hours in the chair, I didn't have the heart to tell him that this year he needs to schedule his first colonoscopy. I'm working from up to down on bettering his health.

The Wondering Texan


 

What Perfume and Lard have in Common

It's after spring break, the crowds are gone and so is the sunny, warm weather. Today is a gray, misty, cool day, and in a little while I've got to get blood drawn for my upcoming oncologist visit, and afterwards I have an appointment for my annual OB/GYN visit. As you can tell, the weather outside mirrors my day ahead.



The small skillet was filled with rust and leaves.

But as I reflect on the past weeks, I have to say it's been overwhelming positive and chaotic with many firsts for me. To start, I participated in my first Relay for Life event to raise money for the American Cancer Society. So far, this little town of about 8,500 people has raised about $70,000. During the event I received ACS's Hero of Hope award. I was shocked. So shocked in fact that when my first name was called I just stood there looking around for the recipient to walk forward. Then I felt stupid. Feeling stupid while standing on a stage receiving an award is awkward to say the least.

Next in the "firsts" department when I tried this week to "cure" an old cast iron skillet and Dutch oven for the Boy Scouts. The boys were busy last weekend cleaning out their storage shed and trailer and came across the two rusted pieces of iron. I brought them home with the promise that I would revitalize them. As I told my neighbor, a West Virginia native, of this latest project of mine she looked at me as if thinking:

1) She's going to drop those on her foot
2) She's going to set her kitchen on fire
3) The poor dear has snapped
4) All of the above

She then asked, "Do you know how?" I stammered, "Um, well, I thought I would Google it." That's when she took charge telling me to thoroughly clean the pots with steel pads and liberally grease them down with lard, "Not Crisco, butter or vegetable oil. Lard," she told me. Then cook the pots in the oven at about 275 degrees for hours. Clean and repeat as needed. She then looked me square in the eye and said, "You got it?" Shish, of course. Just one more question, "Where do I get lard?"

So I tried it on Tuesday. The results are mixed. The pots are better than before but not what Paula Deen would be proud of, but then again, this is for Boy Scouts so maybe they won't be critical.

Then last night, my husband and I spent our first night in our guest bedroom. You see, our son came home from baseball last night with about five pounds of red dirt on him. He took a shower and then proudly came out telling me, "Mom, the bathroom was all stinky so I sprayed it with your perfume." My bedroom and bathroom still smell like Chanel. I wonder if my West Virginia neighbor has a recipe for perfume detoxification.

I know there have been other recent firsts, but my mind has drawn a blank and/or they are too mundane to mention. So, signing off for now.

Wondering if I have the energy to tackle the pots again this afternoon.

The Wondering Texan